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Lincoln loved coffee. He drank around five cups a day when in med school, despite scientific evidence that it was way too much caffeine for a person to consume. He loved fancy locally-roasted pour overs, loved cheap Folgers from grocery stores, loved espresso and lattes and cappuccinos. He loved drinking them in heavy ceramic mugs with the steam rising into his face. He loved drinking them out of paper cups with plastic lids, the coffee splashing out and dripping through his fingers and he walked around town. On hot summer days, he loved slurping it ice cold through green plastic straws out of clear plastic cups, slippery with condensation. He didn’t even mind drinking it lukewarm when it had been sitting on the counter for a few hours.
One way Lincoln did not enjoy coffee, however, was sprayed out of another person’s mouth and onto his face. Unfortunately, this is what happened when Daisy saw Fitz walking into the kitchen.
“That’s ahhhh...an interesting outfit you have on today, Fitz.”
Fitz looked down at his t-shirt, emblazoned with a bald eagle and the words “Freedom Isn’t Free!” He quickly looked back up.
“Fitz!” he repeated gruffly, pulling up the waistband of his baggy, faded jeans. “What kind of commie name is that?”
Lincoln frowned. There were so many things wrong with the words coming out of Fitz’s mouth, but he decided to focus on the most pressing one. “Why are you talking in an American accent?”
Fitz walked up to the table, turned his chair around, and swung his leg over the seat, folding his arms across the back of the chair. “The name’s Joe,” he corrected. “Joe…” he scanned around the room before settling his gaze on the sink. “Joe Plumber.”
“Veto,” Daisy said automatically, her voice flat.
“Yeah, definitely not calling you that,” Lincoln agreed.
Fitz ignored them and stuck a wooden toothpick in his mouth, clenching it between his teeth. “What’s for breakfast today?” he asked.
Lincoln raised an eyebrow. “Same as usual. There’s cereal in the cupboard, you can make toast, oatmeal -”
Fitz shook his head. “No no no. What I need is a nice, big, juicy steak.” He set his palms wide apart in demonstration. “Extra rare.”
“Oh, not this again,” Jemma groaned from behind Fitz. She walked past the table and poured hot tea from her cherry-red kettle into her mug.
“Again?” Lincoln asked.
“He’s practicing for the mission tomorrow,” Jemma explained. “At the gun show in Mississippi.”
“I like guns,” Fitz offered.
“Yes,” Jemma sighed, turning to face him. “We get it, Fitz. You’re very American.”
“The name’s Joe,” Fitz corrected. “Joe Pl-”
“Nope!” Daisy interrupted.
“Still not calling you that,” Lincoln declared at the same time.
Jemma patted his head as she walked past him with her tea. “Time to think of a new name. See you in the lab.”
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“Fitz! What are you doing?!” Jemma yelled from the doorway to the living area, arms crossed over her chest.
Fitz turned to look over the back of the couch, where he and Hunter were slouching back, sitting with their legs spread wide open, the two of them somehow managing to take up the entirety of the three-seater. “I’m showing Hunter the movie about the greatest day in the history of the world,” Fitz explained. “Zero Shark Thirty.”
Jemma groaned and walked to the couch, grabbing the remote from Fitz and turning off the television. “In case you forgot, we need to come up with a device that can identify which guns contain the Splinter bullets by the end of the day!”
Fitz chuckled, turning to Hunter. “Ladies, amirite? Always nagging.” He turned to Jemma. “Relax - it’ll get done! You’re only looking at the greatest engineer in the world! Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it!”
Jemma turned to glare at Hunter and jerked her head towards Fitz.
Hunter sighed and turned to Fitz. “C’mon, Fitz -”
Fitz glared at Hunter.
Hunter rolled his eyes. “Dwayne. Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too far?”
Jemma wrinkled her nose. “Dwayne?”
Fitz folded his arms over his chest in defiance. “Dwayne Johnson.”
“Isn’t that The Rock?” May asked from the back corner of the room. They all turned at the sound of her voice.
Hunter frowned. “How long have you been standing there?”
May shrugged. “I love Zero Shark Thirty.”
Jemma groaned in frustration and grabbed Fitz’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “You are coming with me to the lab. And you are definitely choosing a new name.”
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“MAAAAACK!” Fitz exclaimed when Mack entered the room. Fitz walked towards him and embraced him in an awkward handshake-hug-hybrid greeting. “WHAT’S UP, MAN?!”
Mack winced and pressed two fingers against his ear. “Why are you yelling?”
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? THIS IS MY NORMAL VOLUME!” Fitz proclaimed. “I NEED TO MAKE SURE EVERYONE CAN HEAR MY WORDS SO THAT THEY CAN RECOGNIZE MY EXISTENCE!” He held his arms out. “I’M AMERICAN!”
Mack raised an eyebrow. “You do remember that I am actually American?” He shook his head in disappointment. “Man, these stereotypes are hurtful!”
“DID YOU WATCH THE GAME LAST NIGHT?” Fitz asked.
Mack furrowed his brow. “What game?”
“I LIKED IT WHEN THAT ONE PLAYER THREW THE BALL TO THE OTHER PLAYER! WASN’T THAT GREAT?! KICKING BALLS IS FOR PANSIES! IN AMERICA, WE LIKE TO DO THINGS WITH OUR BARE HANDS!” Fitz paused in contemplation before adding, “AND WITH GUNS!”
“Fitz!” Jemma called from the other side of the lab. “I need your assistance here.”
Fitz ignored her, choosing to continue grinning manically at Mack.
Mack gave him a questioning look. “It sounds like Simmons needs you.”
Fitz rolled his eyes. “For the hundredth time, my name’s not Fitz!” he shouted over his shoulder to Jemma. “It’s Steve!”
Jemma groaned. “And I’ve told you just as many times that you can’t name yourself Steve Rogers! He is literally Captain America!”
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The day of the mission, Jemma found Fitz pacing back and forth in the garage, muttering to himself.
“Sorcerer's Stone,” he reminded himself. “Sorcerer's.”
Jemma rolled her eyes. “I don’t think anyone there is going to be talking about Harry Potter.”
“You can never be too prepared, Simmons. Isn’t that what you always say?” Fitz reminded her.
Jemma smiled. “I think I might be starting to re-think that policy, actually,” she teased. “There’s only so many times I can listen to you say that America is the greatest country in the history and the present and the future of the world.”
Fitz scratched the back of his head. “Probably because you’re a socialist.”
Jemma lightly kicked his cowboy boot with the toe of her ballet flat. “You’ll be careful?”
Fitz gave her a half-hearted smile. “C’mon, Jemma. I’m going to be in a building filled with guns. It’s the safest place a man could possibly be.”
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Fitz winced as Jemma stitched up his arm. “That was the opposite of careful!” Jemma scolded.
“What was I supposed to do?” Fitz protested. Jemma struggled not to smile, relieved to hear his brogue again.
“Oh, I don’t know. How about not punch the man with a million guns?” Jemma suggested.
“But Jem, he went on an exotic safari to hunt monkeys! That’s unforgivable!”
Jemma glared at him. “You know what would have been unforgivable? If that gun he shot you with had a Splinter bullet in it! Then where would you be?”
“Disintegrated,” Fitz muttered. “But Bobbi and Coulson were able to locate and destroy all the Splinter guns!” he reminded her. “That means the mission was a success. And I didn’t get shot with a Splinter bullet - just a regular one!”
“I would much prefer if you didn’t get shot at all.” Jemma paused, waiting for his rebuttal, but it didn’t come. She bit her lip. “I also much prefer you Scottish,” she added. “As an American, you’re a complete tosser.”
“I’m going to miss being confident, though” Fitz sighed.
Jemma rolled her eyes. “You don’t need to be American to be confident, Fitz. You have every reason to be confident as yourself.”
Fitz snorted. “Yeah. Right.”
Jemma frowned. “I’m serious, Fitz. You’re brilliant and funny and interesting and handsome and kind and-”
“Wait,” Fitz interrupted. “You think I’m handsome?”
Jemma wrinkled her nose. “Really? All those nice things I just listed and you’re getting stuck on ‘handsome’?”
“No, but Jemma,” Fitz persisted. “When you say handsome, do you mean, like, actually physically attractive?”
“Fitz. You are a literal genius. I’m sure you know what handsome means. Do not make me list all of its synonyms.”
Fitz shook his head. “See, the thing is, I knew you thought I was brilliant and funny and interesting and kind. But I never knew you were physically attracted to me.”
Jemma scowled. “No, I said you were handsome -”
“Which is a synonym for physically attractive.”
“Objectively speaking,” Jemma downplayed. “Objectively speaking, you are physically attractive.”
Fitz grinned. “You’re attracted to me!”
Jemma groaned. “Shut up, Fitz!” She slapped a bandage over his stitches. “There! Done! Now leave!”
Fitz hopped off the table, wrapped his good arm around Jemma’s waist, and pulled her into a kiss. Jemma reflexively swung an arm around his neck. Fitz turned them until Jemma’s waist bumped into the edge of the table. She squeaked and increased the pressure on his lips. He bent over her until she was leaning almost flat on her back on the table.
They parted, smiling at each other. Jemma opened her mouth to speak, but Fitz beat her to it.
“Why, hello there little missy,” he drawled in his American accent.
Jemma scowled and let go of him, moving her hands to grasp the table behind her. “No. Stop.”
“What brings you to these here parts?”
Jemma pushed at his shoulders. “Get off me, Fitz!”
Fitz waggled his eyebrows at her as he pulled her up. “So will these meet-ups be a regular thing for us going forward?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Jemma declared as she stomped towards the door.
“That’s fine!” Fitz called after her. “We’ll touch base later!” Fitz smiled to himself as Jemma disappeared down the hall.
“Excellent.”